the shoe rack she hesitated, decided to stay barefoot.
She turned on the overhead light in her largest closet, went to the back of it, opened the hinged panel and, biting at her lower lip, dialedthe combination on the barrel safe. She opened the cash box, took out two twenties for the boy for the two days of sailing lessons, then took an additional amount to replenish her household and walk-around money. The amount left was dangerously thin. She did not want to count it nor to guess how much might be there.
But it was no longer something to start up the little itchings of desperation, the feeling of bleakness and dread. Instead it gave her a feeling of excitement and tension and hope. This time it would work. It had to work. She would make it work. And it would be an end to any need to scramble, ever again.
“Bless you, Bixby,” she whispered, “you big jolly Santy Claus. You ripe juicy pigeon.”
She closed the safe, tweaked the dial, closed the panel and turned off the closet light as she left.
When Francisca cat-scratched at the screen panel, Crissy was carefully adding the measured ingredients for two Planters Punches in the tall glasses.
“Come right in, please, Oliver,” she called, then heard the panel slide open, slide shut, heard Francisca’s sandal-slap fading swiftly along the terrace stone.
Without turning from the task, she said, “Do sit down, Oliver. Anywhere, please. I want to know why I keep getting into such foul trouble when I try to come about when we’re really dusting along.”
“M’am, I guess it’s on account of the Dutchman, it’s a real tender boat, and you’ve got it in your head you can keep her on the plane coming about, so you try to slam her around too fast. You have to ease her, haul her pretty short when you bring her up to point, then feed it to her as fast as she’ll take it and she’ll get back planing. You can’t yank her around. But—you’re getting better at it.”
She took the two tall glasses up, turned and walked toward him, saying, “Thank you, dear Oliver.” The carpeting, in a pale tone of cinnamon, was laid over foam rubber sheets, and the pliancy of itunder her bare feet accentuated her awareness of herself, oiled sockets of hip and knee, the shift in alternating diagonal stress lines pulling the softness of lining against the sunheated flesh, of the stronger odor of her perfume vaporized in her private warmths, of the ice-cold glasses in her hands, of the slippery lining of her underlip where her tongue-tip touched it, even of the slight heaviness and dampness of a sun-white curl bobbing against her temple in the cadence of her walk toward the boy. No western light could enter this room, but a reflected orange-golden light came in, partly from the cocoanut fronds tall enough to reach into the sunlight and turn to copper. Beyond the brown boy she could see the homing boats of Saturday, a few of them, dots on the broad bay, heading northerly to Dinner Key and to the city. In the strange, fading light she felt leonine, softly powerful.
She held a drink to him and said, “I hate these when they’re made too sweet.”
“Please—I got to leave, I really got to leave.”
He stood awkwardly in the shorts and white T shirt, one shoulder higher than the other, eyes moving swiftly from side to side, his vision moving across her at throat level, his throat bulging in an effortful, dry swallow, his hand reaching aimlessly behind him for the catch that would free the sliding panel.
He had a bony face, and not quite enough chin. His ears stuck out, and his upper lip was lugubriously long, and even at nineteen there were the beginning signs of how the brown-dark hair would recede. Poor lamb, she thought as she put the drinks on the nearby table.
She turned toward him, with pretty sigh, query in the tilt of head, moving so that he abandoned the escape place, trying to move casually away from her, with nervous social cough. She felt sad, wise, maternal and
She turned on the overhead light in her largest closet, went to the back of it, opened the hinged panel and, biting at her lower lip, dialedthe combination on the barrel safe. She opened the cash box, took out two twenties for the boy for the two days of sailing lessons, then took an additional amount to replenish her household and walk-around money. The amount left was dangerously thin. She did not want to count it nor to guess how much might be there.
But it was no longer something to start up the little itchings of desperation, the feeling of bleakness and dread. Instead it gave her a feeling of excitement and tension and hope. This time it would work. It had to work. She would make it work. And it would be an end to any need to scramble, ever again.
“Bless you, Bixby,” she whispered, “you big jolly Santy Claus. You ripe juicy pigeon.”
She closed the safe, tweaked the dial, closed the panel and turned off the closet light as she left.
When Francisca cat-scratched at the screen panel, Crissy was carefully adding the measured ingredients for two Planters Punches in the tall glasses.
“Come right in, please, Oliver,” she called, then heard the panel slide open, slide shut, heard Francisca’s sandal-slap fading swiftly along the terrace stone.
Without turning from the task, she said, “Do sit down, Oliver. Anywhere, please. I want to know why I keep getting into such foul trouble when I try to come about when we’re really dusting along.”
“M’am, I guess it’s on account of the Dutchman, it’s a real tender boat, and you’ve got it in your head you can keep her on the plane coming about, so you try to slam her around too fast. You have to ease her, haul her pretty short when you bring her up to point, then feed it to her as fast as she’ll take it and she’ll get back planing. You can’t yank her around. But—you’re getting better at it.”
She took the two tall glasses up, turned and walked toward him, saying, “Thank you, dear Oliver.” The carpeting, in a pale tone of cinnamon, was laid over foam rubber sheets, and the pliancy of itunder her bare feet accentuated her awareness of herself, oiled sockets of hip and knee, the shift in alternating diagonal stress lines pulling the softness of lining against the sunheated flesh, of the stronger odor of her perfume vaporized in her private warmths, of the ice-cold glasses in her hands, of the slippery lining of her underlip where her tongue-tip touched it, even of the slight heaviness and dampness of a sun-white curl bobbing against her temple in the cadence of her walk toward the boy. No western light could enter this room, but a reflected orange-golden light came in, partly from the cocoanut fronds tall enough to reach into the sunlight and turn to copper. Beyond the brown boy she could see the homing boats of Saturday, a few of them, dots on the broad bay, heading northerly to Dinner Key and to the city. In the strange, fading light she felt leonine, softly powerful.
She held a drink to him and said, “I hate these when they’re made too sweet.”
“Please—I got to leave, I really got to leave.”
He stood awkwardly in the shorts and white T shirt, one shoulder higher than the other, eyes moving swiftly from side to side, his vision moving across her at throat level, his throat bulging in an effortful, dry swallow, his hand reaching aimlessly behind him for the catch that would free the sliding panel.
He had a bony face, and not quite enough chin. His ears stuck out, and his upper lip was lugubriously long, and even at nineteen there were the beginning signs of how the brown-dark hair would recede. Poor lamb, she thought as she put the drinks on the nearby table.
She turned toward him, with pretty sigh, query in the tilt of head, moving so that he abandoned the escape place, trying to move casually away from her, with nervous social cough. She felt sad, wise, maternal and
Similar Books
